Mockingbird
by Reizo Myu
Summary: Gotham. Arkham. Harleen Quinzel is granted a case that could make her career or break it. As the lines between good and evil blur, how will a young blonde intern stand up to the biggest terrorist the city has ever seen?  ON HIATUS!
1. Preface

**Prologue**

I was unsure of what I was about to do.

The elevator was slow. It seemed to take a million forevers just to move up one floor and I was headed up six. Funny to think I was going up.

I felt like I should have been headed down. Down, far into the depths of this ancient building. I should have been traveling down to meet the devil. Instead I was headed up.

Perhaps that reminded me of what I'd been considering before.

Maybe he wasn't the devil after all. Maybe he was just a god in the form of evil.

I didn't want to think about these things.

The elevator was taking far too long.


	2. Bad Joke

**A/N: **I am a fairy... simple writer. I enjoy shipping people so, I've finally given into writing one of my favourites. Please enjoy my retelling of Mad Love, a work originally written by Paul Dini that belongs exclusively to DC comics. This is Nolanverse so, the Joker will have scars and face paint. Also, Harley is being a little... grunged up. She will retain her original naiveté and I plan to stick true to the character but, she will also be darker, more cynical, and less retaining of her innocence than the true, comic book Harley. That said, please enjoy.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

_Bad Joke_

"You're kidding me." I said flatly, expecting someone to jump out and scream 'April Fools!' at me. When it did not happen, I let out an incredulous laugh of shock. I believed this to be some sort of awful joke or sick trick they were trying to play on me, the new girl.

Doctor Laurence's face remained deadpan and serious.

Perhaps elaboration is in order.

My name is Harleen Quinzel. _Doctor _Harleen Quinzel, I keep forgetting my relatively new title. I'm the new kid at Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Insane. I'd gotten there after getting top marks in my psychology class and obtaining an internship on the recommendation of my professor.

As said new girl, I often fell victim to some of the doctors' teasing and the occasional tall tale. I took it with stride, accepting it as a right of initiation anywhere. But this... this was just cruel and unusual.

"It's not joke Harleen I-"

"Doctor Quinzel." I interrupted politely as I could. He raised a brow and I smiled sheepishly. "I want to keep this meeting professional as possible Doctor."

I liked Doctor Laurence. He was the new director of the asylum (ever since the old was locked away with the rest of the inmates) and he had a certain power about him that held my interest. I would have to say I was attracted to him. Then again, I'd always been the sucker when it came to tall, older men with dark hair. Either way, I didn't truly appreciate this meeting yet.

"Alright, Doctor Quinzel. As I was saying, it is not a joke. I'm going to give you audio tapes as well as video recordings of his past sessions, as well as his file. I have reason to believe you could help us on this case." he said, his voice cool and calm as always. I blinked at him then leaned back into the leather chair I sat in, feeling his words soak into me.

"This is for real." I said, somewhat in awe of what he'd just told me.

"Yes." he said plainly. I felt my smile gradually wipe away as I thought about what had just happened. I didn't want to let any doubt show on my face. I could _not _doubt my abilities in this place, especially not in the face of what the asylum _director _had just told me.

"I'll... I'll need some time to prepare." I said, tentative. I didn't want him to think I was demanding time off, only asking for a little longer than an hour or two to let myself arrange my thoughts. I didn't want to walk into a session with so little game plan that I was left out on the sidelines, crying.

"Of course. You've got tonight to review the tapes, as all the sessions are fairly short. You go in there tomorrow at eleven thirty. Do not disappoint." he said, his eyes returning to his paperwork and his pen resuming whatever he was scribbling down. I took this as a signal I was dismissed.

"Thank you Doctor Laurence, I won't disappoint you." I said, picking up the tapes and manila folder at the edge of his desk. I moved for the door, intent upon continuing my days work before going home to review the case.

"Quinzel," Doctor Laurence called. I paused, turning ever so slightly to look at him. He had not yet glanced up from his paperwork but said, "This man can sniff out an agenda. Do _not _enter that room with some sort of plan."

I swallowed, nodding my head as he finally glanced up at me. Then I left, shutting the door behind me.

* * *

><p>Three weeks, sixteen hours, thirty-two minutes, and fifty-seven seconds.<p>

Twelve psychologists, two _psychiatrists_, two interns, and one psychoanalyst flown in from state.

Eleven men, six women, and _one _of him in those three weeks, sixteen hours, now thirty-_three_ minutes, four seconds. And all of them, every last one had broken... except for _him_.

The Joker sat in the center of his room on the floor, contemplating these odds. It had taken him exactly one week, three hours, twelve minutes, forty-six seconds of that time for him to understand that Arkham Asylum was painstakingly boring.

He didn't mean for people to misunderstand that understanding. He would never, ever say that it was _always_ monotonous and terrible. In fact, it had a few ups and downs that kept him mildly amused. But it was nothing like being on the outside; Arkham Island was nothing like _Gotham_.

He rolled his eyes into the back of his head, rocking back and forth, humming quietly to himself. The song held no rhythm or rhyme, only a compilation of sounds. Many wouldn't call it humming at all.

This asylum was becoming... tedious.

He would not stand for that.

The cells, for one thing, were draining him. He could not push the plain, white colour out of his eyesight. No matter where he looked, he saw white. White guard uniforms, doctors in their white lab coats, white walls, white fog covering his barred hole in the wall that they called a window.

The only thing that was not white was his jumpsuit and that wasn't much better. It was an eyesore just for him to see himself in the monotone, steel grey.

He chuckled a little when her heard a familiar voice echo outside of his door.

"When is a door... not a door?" came the quizical, amused call. A soft grunt and an audible _thud_ told him that an orderly had clocked the man over the head, either annoyed with the riddles or annoyed that he could not sort out the answer.

The Joker, however, found it all too easy.

_When it's ajar. A jar._

It was not that clever, however, the thought of Eddie being slapped over the head with a hickory baton made him wheeze out a giggle.

Arkham had her high points but, it was becoming tedious.

Joker was never a man for coddling people or else letting them think he wasn't a man who had priorities, _expectations_.

If they didn't do something fast, then he would just have to find a way to entertain himself, other than tearing down his doctors.

Chances were slim anyone at the asylum would like what he came up with.

* * *

><p>I shouldn't have decided to wait until I got home. The rest of the day dragged on so greatly, it felt like every hour was a day. I was working with Doctor Ronaldson on the lighter cases. It frightened me, the amount of time ticking away, how little prepared I was. All the while, I couldn't help but think about how many flights of stairs I would travel up tomorrow.<p>

Six flights of stairs, to the very top floor. I remember one of the first questions I'd asked the doctors here.

_"Why are the most dangerous criminals on the top floor?"_

_"In case we ever, ever have a breakout or one of them runs loose, I wouldn't want them located next to the nearest exit, would you Harleen?"_

Dr. Tyler had spoken so sarcastically that I had, at first, believed he was joking. It had taken me a moment to realize he'd been chastising me and I'd blushed, feeling both angry and embarrassed at my gullibility.

I'd avoided him after that and it was an unwelcome surprise to find him clocking out the same time I was.

"Harleen." he drawled, false regard in his voice. I noticed he didn't bother with my title as Doctor.

_He looks down on you. They all do. He thinks you shouldn't be here._

"Hello, Doctor Tyler. I trust you've had a pleasant day?"

_Hello Jason. I hope you tripped down the stairs today and all your patients spat in your face._

"Oh it's been good enough. I hear you got called into Laurence's office today. Did something happen?" he asked quietly, poorly disguising his scorn and curiosity. I knew he was hoping I would get thrown out.

With a burst of anger, I realized I wanted to throw all that doubt back into his face.

"No," I started, pausing for dramatic effect as I punched out my time card, "I was actually called in so he could assign me a new patient. A41979."

Everyone in the asylum knew that patient ID. I wanted to look at his face when I walked out but, it made me happier to know he was standing in dumb shock behind me.

As I walked out the door, I felt my shoulder began to shake. I had reached my car when I felt I could no longer hold back and began to giggle.

They would all see. I would do great things.

People would love me.


	3. Prepare

**A/N: **so Harley has a teensy problem with the other doctors not accepting her and the Joker has a problem with not accepting any doctors. Fun, eh? Anyways, I'd like to give a thank you to anyone who's willing to leave a review. I thrive on them and they are much appreciated. Props to anyone who caught my homage to Heath Ledger in the last chapter. Now, onward with the story.

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

_Prepare_

The whole drive home I had to tell myself to persevere. The manila folder and tapes next to me was slowly driving me mad. I wanted to open it now.

I had waited the whole day. I told myself I could wait longer.

So, once I reached the apartment, I quickly turned off the car and grabbed the folder along with the recordings, launching into a sprint the second the car door was closed. I didn't even give my usual greeting to the night manager as I ran up the two flights of stairs to my apartment and practically broke down the door before slamming it and jumping onto the couch. The old thing made a loud, angry screech as it protested the abrupt weight that had been dumped on to its rusting springs but, I didn't care about that.

I opened the file.

Then I almost reeled back in terror.

The first thing to greet me was a full page mug shot, in color, of _him _after being taken into captivity. It was mesmerizing.

He still had the paint on his face. It was smeared, worn off in some patches yes, but he still had it on. His hair was shorter, a vibrant green color. The way he looked at the camera...

It was like being stared at by a predator.

To this day I have no idea how long I stared at that picture of him. It was a good while. I traced over him with my eyes, trying to put his face into a permanent folder in my mind. This face of the madman. He was the crazy doctors dreamed about sinking their claws into and now I had him.

And he was... terrifying. And intriguing.

What I was about to face tomorrow hit me. And I had to turn the page. I could no longer stare at the picture.

The folder had been huge. I was shocked by the contents inside of it. Photos of past doctors who'd gotten on his bad side, information on his psyche, diagnostic examinations, even a failed hypnotherapy trial. I was able to read all the way up until the section where previous doctors had listed probable illnesses.

It wasn't possible that he had _all_ the disorders, diseases, and illnesses listed. There were enough in there to fill an entire medical encyclopedia.

Sighing, I shut the folder. It would be of no help to me at the moment. Instead, I took one of the audio tapes and placed it correctly into the machine that would play it back to me.

It was the beginning of a long night.

* * *

><p>Time is money.<p>

What a horrible saying.

Time was time. It was endless. It was always passing and would always pass. Time... time was nothing. There was _always _enough time. There was _never _enough money. That was what caused the depression.

Timing... timing was everything. Money was nothing.

They called me crazy. They said I'd flipped my lid.

I'd burnt money and a china-man on top of it. I had taken their idea of time and shortened it. They never had enough time. I always had enough. That made me crazy to them.

The door opened and I turned, expecting to see another nurse with a sedative needle. Oh how I _hated _those needles. They would poke and they would pry. They would try to get me into a state of calm so I'd be more willing to talk.

But no. It was Douglas.

He was one of my men on the inside. Amazing what a little extra cash will let a person do.

"They've got a newbie here now. They're sending her in to you tomorrow." he stuttered.

Scared, scared, scared little bird. Scared of _me_. Shouldn't be afraid of me. As long as he was useful he need not fear death and that was what he feared from me. He should have feared what was worse.

What's worse than death?

"Perfect. Does newbie have a name?" I drawled slowly. Little birdy looked like he was about to go into conniptions. He was too afraid to even hear me mocking him. Using his words, _his _rather diminutive vocabulary.

"Y-yes. Harleen. Harleen Quinzel." he managed to splutter through his teeth. I grinned, evoking a small, barely muffled groan to escape him. His mood flipped, along with the mood of the entire room, once my expression changed to one of annoyance.

"Get out Douglas." I said coldly.

He practically ran out the door.

Meanwhile, I began to muse over the name.

I'd heard about this one. They talked about her occasionally in the cafeteria. I'd heard Dirges talking about her. Pathetic, the man's prattling on and on about a silly little intern. He found her attractive, his exact words being 'pretty little blonde with clothes just tight enough.' I scoffed aloud even thinking about it. Men who succumbed to this shallow emotion, lust; they infuriated me.

However there was something about this girl. The name.

_Harleen Quinzel. Harley Quinzel. Harley. Quinn. Harley Quinn. Harlequin._

I started to laugh. And my laughter carried, reverberated amongst the walls of my cell. Through the glass wall I could see Douglas shiver.

* * *

><p>"<em>Harleeeeeeeeen." he growled. I tried to scream, tried to run. I was rooted to my seat. I couldn't go anywhere. Trapped! I was trapped.<em>

_He advanced, firing in my direction. I shrieked and ducked, feeling wind rush by my hair._

_The bomb strapped to my chest began to beep. It grew louder and louder. He, lifted his gun, aiming at me. I shut my eyes in fear._

_Beep, beep, beep, BEEP, BEEP,BEEPBEEPBEEP!_

_And I heard the gun shot._

I jerked upward, looking around and panting. Then I turned to my right, slamming my hand down onto the snooze button for my alarm clock. I looked up to the TV and jolted back before growling and beginning to search for the remote. It appeared I'd fallen asleep with the television paused on _his_ face. Finally finding the remote, I hit the power button and watched as the picture switched to a black screen.

I felt my soft, flannel blanket fall off my shoulders as I rubbed my eyes. Though I had slept for what appeared to be four hours I felt like I hadn't slept at all. I had to get ready. Today was the day, the day I was facing _him_.

My stomach flipped over inside of me, made me stumble a little as I stood up.

I walked back to my room, leaving a trail of clothes behind me as I readied myself for a speedy shower. I washed myself down entirely in lukewarm water, letting it run over my skin but, keeping my hair up and out of the way. I didn't have time to blow dry this morning so, best to not get it wet at all. For the last minute or so of my shower, I turned the hot water off and soaked in the cold, hoping it would return some color to my skin.

I stepped out of the shower slightly disappointed. My skin was a shade or two lighter but, I would be able to do nothing about the pronounced bags under my eyes or the obvious exhaustion that read in them. Carefully, I took my long blonde hair and twisted it, clipping in up out of my face.

From there, I took a dot of cover up on my finger and rubbed it under my eyes. It didn't completely hide the bags under my baby blues but, it did a good job of making them less noticeable. After pinching my cheeks in an attempt to pull some color into my face, I carefully applied a little mascara and lipstick.

However I didn't go so far as to apply my usual blush and eyeliner. I didn't want to look like I was trying too hard. Finally, I went to my closet to retrieve the outfit I already had in mind. A red cotton blouse and black skirt with matching pumps. It looked nice but, professional. However, there was one snag, I decided as I picked up my keys off the couch and walked out the door, black jacket draped over my shoulder.

It was difficult to move my arms freely in my blouse. My skirt hugged my legs in a way that it shouldn't; the waistband was almost digging into my stomach. Even slipping into my doctor's jacket I could feel the difference. The short, white lab coat was loose around my shoulders and didn't pull taut against my back when my arms moved.

My clothes were too tight.

It was true, the paycheck of an intern wasn't much. Sure I could call home and ask for money but... no. No, calling home to ask for money was out of the question. I could still remember my father's words ringing in my ears when he'd finished helping me move into my dorm room.

_Go and make a living so you can take care of yourself._

Of course college had been much more difficult than I'd planned.

_No Harley- Harleen! No Harleen, you're not going to think about... that._

I concentrated on the roads, thinking about everything except college. The drive to Arkham was long and I knew there were plenty of things for me to concentrate on other than that time of my life. I bit down on my lip lightly, trying not to let my head get the better of me.

A thought struck me then, came at me like, not to be cliché but, a tone of bricks.

I couldn't control my own thoughts. And that one, single thought centering around my lack of control lead to a million others.

_He_ tore everyone apart. Young, old, middle aged, male, female, white, black, Hispanic, Japanese in one case. He got at everyone.

He'd told one of the few women they sent in to see him that she had a nonexistent sexuality and suggested she'd been molested as a child, that she had tried to become aroused and had probably experimented with many different kinds of people. He then proceeded to tell her she could play the fancy pants doctor all she wanted but nothing could restore her already damaged goods. The woman had left the room in tears and hadn't been able to make it past the doorframe before collapsing and having a mild break down. She was still in the process of filing a lawsuit.

An older man, one who'd been brought in from my old college but whom I'd never studied under, had been informed he was an alcoholic and was having troubles with his wife. _He _had said that the professor in question should probably man up and stop sleeping on the couch. This scenario had been deduced from his slight bed head (meaning he didn't have access to the bathroom his wife was using as they were avoiding contact,) a miniscule wine stain on his already magenta dress shirt just barely peeking out from under a lapel, and the fact that his slacks didn't match his shirt but he did wear his wedding ring. This man had to be escorted out after he attempted to attack the patient.

They'd only sent in one person remotely close to my age. A young doctor, barely out of internship and working at the state asylum. He'd barely sat down when he had been asked if racial slurs bothered him. When he'd said he didn't encounter them often enough for slurs to be a bother, he'd been subjected to a long and rather explicit list of many different names (some I'd never heard of) for his ethnicity, Spanish. The man had been calm and left the room. He came back once more the following day only to have an hour long session with a silent patient whose parting words were yet another name. He had not come back and had resigned his position as a doctor to pursue a different career.

If he took these experienced doctors and tore them apart so easily, how was I to fare? I felt a tear work its way from the corner of my left eye and hastily wiped it away. I couldn't afford tears right now. If he saw that he would definitely call me out on it. I needed to just relax and drive to Arkham.


	4. Introduce

A/N: Sorry it's so long in between updates guys. I am very very pleased to say this story is coming to mind much more smoothly than I had originally anticipated. I would also like to say, if you are a true Batman Fan, go check out **HoistTheColours** and **Naturally Unlucky**. They are both on my favorites list so, it should be easy to find them. Their works are amazing. ALL of their work. So, go check it out ;). Also, major shout outs and props to anyone who leaves a review. Positive or Negative, I don't care so long as it's constructive . I enjoy feedback. Also, go check out Nine Inch Nails album 'The Downward Spiral' as every song on their reminds me of the Joker, particularly 'Heresey."

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><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

_Introduce_

I'd always been unnerved by the fact that Arkham resided on an Island in the Narrows. I was always one to think about the worst case scenario and, immediately upon driving up the twisting road for the first time, realized that if prisoners escaped and killed the guards controlling the bridge to the Island, we could all easily be trapped. And anyone who remembered the terrorist attacks, a mere year and six months ago, would know that the Narrows was a terrible place to be trapped in. They had, in fact, been determined as uninhabitable but, that didn't stop the city; with all of its power and all of its iron grip: people went to, settled down in, made business in, and lived in the Narrows. The slum of a city and it still couldn't keep growing.

I gave my security pass to the men running the security booth and they promptly let me in. I had to withhold a shiver as one, a younger man with greasy blonde hair, cast a quick glance at my chest. He obviously noticed the very strain against the buttons that I usually worked so desperately to hide. I wanted to be taken seriously as a doctor, not ridiculed or labeled as a whore. It didn't seem to stop the other doctors but I could damn sure stop the security and fixed the boy with a glare so fierce he took a small step back as I drove forward.

The twisting, curving road to the asylum gave me enough time to compose myself once more. I always had time to think when I crept up that road at barely ten miles an hour. Carefully, I considered my position, the job I'd been thrust into. Behind the fear and the anxiety, there was something else. It was a dim feeling, in the very pit of my stomach, towards the back of my chest. This odd... buzzing feel that I dimly related to the feeling of the slow climb of a roller coaster on a tall hill.

It was... excitement.

This was a high profile case. This was a case some doctors would kill for and others were killed over. I felt like I should be getting my picture taken. The passion, the excitement, the fear... the Glamour! Not glamour, Glamour. It was very endearing. Slowly, so as not to overexert myself, I let that buzzing feeling wash through me. That was good, very good. It kept my mind intent on the wonders of the task ahead and locked away all those little past worries and future anxiety.

Finally feeling at ease with my thoughts, I parked my little red convertible in my assigned space at the parking lot and turned off the car. I had acquired my little habit of staying in the car while it was off to look at that sign. It had my name in big bold letters, not the little ones like our orderlies and janitorial staff. BIG letters. DR. HARLEEN QUINZEL, PhD.

It almost made me shiver, studying that sign for the minute I stepped out of the car. I was so important now! I was special, my life now having the meaning I'd thirsted for, for so long. I loved that sign. And I let myself grin as I got out of the car, feeling a sense of great purpose wash over me. Yes, today was the day.

Finally, a big shot.

* * *

><p><em>Tick tick tick.<em>

I drummed my fingers lightly against the wall.

They didn't bother trying to confine me in the cell so far due to my "good behavior as of late" as it was so coldly put by the sniveling Doctor Laurence. I was allowed to walk freely about the place, just as I was allowed to eat lunch with the lower risk criminals now. I'd been given my make-up back as well though, that had been a fight.

I chuckled as I remembered, shutting my eyes to fully absorb my brief time lapse into the past, my first few days at Arkham in particular. They'd stripped me down entirely to make certain I had no weapons. It was an entirely futile effort as I could have used just about anything in this cell to maim or otherwise fatally injure any victim of my choosing.

The box spring mattress alone filled me with ideas and I bit down on my lip, popping my neck as I reveled in the pleasure of my thoughts. The idea of spilling blood, feeling it's warmth run over my hands, was enough to make me shudder in joy. The fantasies blooming in my head were inevitable and, while I could have controlled them easily, I let the floodgates open and allowed my mind to roam free. Beautiful pictures danced in my head: Gotham speeding by as I drove down a street, squad car sirens blaring in my ears, the thrill of teetering at the edge of a skyscraper only to fall back onto the roof at the last moment, Batman taking a swing at me and breaking my nose (this particular image did send a tremor down my spine) inevitably causing my blood to rush in a delicious rhythm through my body, Harvey Dent posters torn in half and messily taped together again...

My reverie was interrupted by the untimely arrival of a guard whose name I did not care to know. I glared up at him from my place at the opposite wall, for a brief moment forgetting the reason for the rude awakening form my dream land and furiously growling at the man. Then I remembered what was happening today and grinned, taking care to show all of my teeth to him. He did not wince.

Instead he came forward, handcuffs in his palm, and shoved them on to my wrists as I assumed the usual position, chortling as I did so.

"Sure you don't want to frisk me?..." I paused to glance at his name tag, " _Lyyyyyyyyyle_ Bolton."

"Talk to me like that again and I'll have you in lock up." he growled, standing behind me and beginning to lead me forward. I mock pouted, trying to get a reaction out of him. In Arkham, there wasn't much else to do but count your own breaths and annoy whoever was available. Occasionally there was the therapist who put up a fight but, I broke them too. It wasn't even a challenge.

"I'll be sure to remember that." I said, pseudo respect in ,my voice. He opened the door to the therapy room I was accustomed to, sitting my down and shackling me to the chair. As he moved to leave the room, I called after him, "Thanks _Lyle_."

The door slammed shut and I began to cackle, hearing nothing but the sound of my own, choking laughs as they resonated around me and swirled through my ears.

_Music._

* * *

><p>My mother had told me a joke once; it was a joke I still could not understand. She had taken it from <em>Alice in Wonderland<em>. It had been one of my favourite stories as a child but, I knew the Disney version. I hadn't even known a book existed until I was in middle school. I didn't read it until college, when preparing to write a paper on the subject.

_"Harley. Why is a raven like a writing desk?"_

_"Why mama?"_

_"I haven't the slightest idea."_

I didn't understand the joke. It wasn't very funny. There didn't seem to be a pun anywhere. It was simply ridiculousness. I had no idea what brought the memory back to me as I organized the things in my office, trying to dwindle away the few minutes before I would have to travel up many floors and into the den of a demon.

Abandoning my thoughts on the matter of the joke, I was forced to focus my mental process on one subject. It, the concept that is, had been bothering me since I had realized it during the sixth video the night before. It seemed so utterly absurd that I almost felt like laughing. The idea had almost brought an unwilling laugh to my lips, as the announcement Doctor Lawrence had given me yesterday had.

I did not hate my new patient.

I hadn't met the man. I had no preconceived notions about him. How was I supposed to judge a person before I even met them? Who was I to judge anyone anyways? I knew who I was. I knew that I worked in an asylum and took pleasure in the fact. I was like all the other doctors here, a carnivore with the fangs to back myself up.

I strapped people down to tables as they screamed and shouted a time that I was a monster. I had felt how satisfying it was to rip into flesh with a needle, plunge it through skin and into the vein. I would watch, fulfilled as their eyes went out of focus and we sat them up to have a much more cordial chat. I was a monster. That's what people called him too.

Who was I to judge until I'd met the man? Maybe he was a monster.

Or maybe he just needed his own little niche in the world... like me.

_Stop it Harley! Stop excusing things! You're _here_ to judge! Now do your job!_

My voice of reason was right, I decided, sighing. I took a sip of coffee from the mug sitting on my desk. I'd initially taken it from the coffee maker in the staff lounge, intent upon staying there to chat with doctors. However, I'd heard a comment that had caused my imminent retreat. I'd heard things like this so often that it seemed almost customary for me to simply ignore them. However, this certain quip caught me off guard.

Doctor Tyler had told me, "Good luck with your new patient. I'm certain he'll help you blow your way up in this place."

I had, of course, noticed the innuendo. I did not cry but, out of fear that I might I'd fled the staff room after a fake, cheery smile and without waiting for my coffee to cool. The result was a now scorched tongue and a bad mood that I would need to fix before going to see _him_. I was in the middle of clearing my mind to regain my composure when a soft rap on the door garner my undivided attention.

Doctor Lawrence stepped in with an ominous, "It's time."

I masked a smile and a giggle. It sounded like a line from a cheesy thriller movie. I had to scold myself all through college about my bursts of giggles and smiles. Every time I smirked out of turn or let out a little chuckle at an unintended pun the glares started and those glares frightening to a person like me, who craved approval, and settled my resolve on the matter. Giggling, snickering, smirking, and smiling were unprofessional. I had to be better, look less girly.

I'd been fighting this little girl perception my whole life. Due to my hair, my eyes, my hands, my height, and (reluctant to admit it though I was) my ass, I was completely unable to allow myself any sort of childlike freedom. Otherwise everyone would just look at me and imagine pigtails and a little red dress then that would be it. I would be done, over, out, and finished before anything else could be said. So, I gathered myself like a decent young lady and made my way toward the door, clipboard in hand.

Doctor Lawrence walked me down the hall. I think he may have been telling me something but it was all lost in the knotting of my stomach and the buzzing in my ears. I was too nervous about what I was about to do to pay any attention to what Robert Lawrence had to say. I flexed my fingers lightly, my palms sweaty. I was about to allow myself to be picked apart by a madman, a "monster."

What on Earth had possessed me to say yes to this job?

We had stopped. I felt myself beginning to panic when a kind, heavy hand fell upon my shoulder. I jumped slightly and looked up into the dark eyes of Doctor Lawrence. He was smiling kindly at me and, not for the first time, I felt my heart flutter a little. I has dismissed what he had to say moments before without a second thought. Now I felt myself eagerly listening to what he had to say as he pulled a small handkerchief from his suit pocket (how old fashioned) and wiped my forehead lightly.

"Don't look so nervous. You'll do fine." he said, reassuringly. I nodded, taking a deep breath and turning away from him. My hand trembled slightly as I took my keycard from my neck and moved it to slide through the access pass on the door. Lights turned green and a clicking noise signaled I'd been admitted entrance.

_You can do this Harleen. Just keep focus. You heard him, you'll do fine._

How I wished I could listen to that soft voice in my head now, the voice that I knew was just as terrified of what lay beyond this door as I was. Doctor Lawrence was waiting for me and, I steadied myself then pushed open the door, taking a step inside.

I heard the lock turn but, it was a minute or so before the door actually opened. I had prepared myself for a young college bookie, one with dirty blonde hair and wire framed glasses with nice suits that hugged her correctly. I was wrong to go off of the inmates descriptions but they were what I had.

What I did not expect was the bare, creamy leg with knock-off black heels to appear in the doorframe. The skirt that followed, I noted, _would _have been business like if it had not risen another inch and clung to her hips like a second skin. Her blouse seemed loose but, when she turned to shut the door behind her I saw strange arm movements, as though she were trying with all her might to prevent tearing.

Her hair was clipped up with a black hairclip and was a light, sunny blonde. When she turned around I saw she wore tiny, round glasses and (today at least) make up that brought out the blue in her eyes even as she tried to hide the purple under them. I almost started guffawing there and then. They had sent in this small, blue eyed, blonde haired _baby _to me.

Inwardly I praised Gotham for throwing me the occasional curve ball that lightened this place up. She took the seat across from me and crossed her ankles, though, I noted she had almost tried to cross her legs at her knees first. I watched, amused as she scribbled something down on her clipboard.

"Hello... Doctor." I purred, grinning at her from across the table. She looked up and, for the briefest moment her lips twitched, as if she wanted to smile back.

Then her hand came down on to the metal table with an audible clacking noise. For the first time, the child spoke and her voice astonished me. She was almost like a Barbie with her clothes, her hair, her eyes. Now her voice completed the new picture forming in my mind.

"Doctor Harleen Quinzel, first therapy session with Patient A41479. The patient is suffering from a heretofore undiagnosed condition, exhibiting symptoms of Antisocial Personality Disorder. Patient's real name is unknown, Alias: The Joker."


	5. Banter

**A/N: **Nothing very noteworthy at the moment. I don't own Batman. Sorry for the updates being few and far inbetween. R&R

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

_Banter_

Patient A41979.

It sounded so cheap and metallic on my tongue. It was as if I'd looked at a Velociraptor and called it a lizard. It sounded like a label we'd placed on him to make him sound less dangerous, as if by calling him just another patient he would _be_ just another patient. I looked up at him after jotting down 'Notes' at the top of my clipboard. His head was down and, apart from the moment where he'd said hello to me, I hadn't seen his face.

For a moment, all I could hear was the whirring of the tape recorder. Then he looked up.

I was startled by his eyes. They were pitch black, surrounded by his haphazardly applied greasepaint. They looked like black holes, ready to swallow me up whole. The shock of our gazes meeting kept me silent for a few more seconds. When I realized I was staring, I cleared my throat and decided to continue on in my usual manner, my voice professional and low as I could get it. I had to break the eye contact to concentrate.

"Why did you take on your alias? Why did you choose the Joker?" I questioned, thinking it better to stray away from more personal topics at the moment: childhood, The Batman, personal vendettas could wait. It was better to start simple. I kept my eyes fixed on the paper, determined not to look at him for a while yet.

His eyes appraised me. Then, the thing I had least expected to happen did. He answered my question.

"Well... you see I believe people should choose their own names. Haven't you ever wanted to change your name, Doc-_tor_?" he asked, innocence in his voice. I felt my eyes widen in surprise but, hid it by taking note of what he said on my clipboard.

_Patient exhibits desire towards independence from social norms. _

"That's neither here nor there," I commented, with a non-committal shrug. I would not be letting this man into my mind.

"Hmm... can I see your card?" he sprung suddenly. I felt my heartbeat rise a little.

"What for?" I asked, too quickly. I didn't want to look into his eyes, but I needed to. Carefully, over the top of my glasses, I glanced at him and saw he was smirking. Of course he was smirking, he knew. He knew I was trying to hide something. Still, I reached into the breast pocket of my lab coat and pulled out a laminated card to hold up to him, maintaining my distance.

"You're going to have to reach a little further for me to see that." he said smoothly. It was my turn to smirk now, shaking my head.

"Protocol says I'm not allowed any further." I said apologetically. In truth, I wasn't even supposed to be reaching this far. He smiled a little, seeming to snicker at some unspoken joke, then leaned forward himself. I didn't believe he really had eye problems, but there was no need to call him out and start the session off on the wrong foot.

"That says Junior Therapist. It means you've only just arrived here." he said, casually leaning back. I blinked, taken back. This was a... different start. He was using pleasantries, talking like a human being, behaving... normally. Despite the face paint, he seemed like a patient who'd gone through all the steps of rehabilitation and was no undergoing his checkup, days away from being released. He didn't seem like The Joker. He didn't seem like the Joker I knew about, anyways. He wasn't the mass murderer. Right now, he was just another patient.

"I'm new. I'm interning here for a year." I explained shortly, averting my eyes. There was an uncomfortable silence. I could feel the tension building up in the air, so acute I swear I could feel his eyes burn.

"You're an _intern_. They sent an _intern_ to me." he observed aloud, quietly. I knew the words were more for my benefit than anything. Though, for the life of me, I couldn't understand why he'd said them. It sounded almost like a warning; like he was warning me of what he was capable of. I was already far too aware of it, but quite suddenly I felt nervous again.

"Well, I'm here to learn. Why not learn from the best? After all, no previous doctor has been successful in curing you so-" I broke off at the look he gave me. I'd known it would be a mistake to look up, but I had and then he'd _looked_ at me. I was abruptly shocked into silence by the intensity of his icy, disbelieving stare.

"Do you think you can cure me... Doc-_tor _Quinzel?" he drawled, drawing out his words in a very peculiar fashion. Without thinking, I jotted down _check speech pattern_. He paid no heed to the movement of the gleaming silver pen. He did not react as previous patients had. He was not screaming that I was analyzing him or crying that I was going to "feed him more medicine." He didn't gaze, with glistening eyes, at the pen and lunge for it. Rather, he didn't even give it a passing glance.

"Well," I started slowly. Deciding that honesty was the best policy in this situation, I admitted, "I'm not sure you _can_ be cured. However, to have it down on my transcript that I made it through a session with you, unscathed, would prove a wonderful asset. So, you see, it's more of a personal thing. I really couldn't care less whether or not you're cured. I'm here to study, examine, and treat _if possible_. If not possible, I'm certain you'll be cared for here."

"And are you trying to care for me... Doctor?" he asked quietly, quirking his head to the side. It was a shining accomplishment for me that I managed not to wince. He reminded me of a wild animal.

"I'm... fairly sure that you understand what I'm here to do, Mister Joker." I said, choosing my words carefully.

"You're here to fix me," he said softly, causing me to look up. My hand scampered over the page, writing a few more quick notes.

"No," I disagreed, shaking my head. "No. I'm here to... to watch you, _help_ you if I can."

"And you think I want help?" the man questioned, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous tone. For a few moments, we locked eyes. I was aware that I was staring, rather shamelessly, into the eyes of a man who'd destroyed the lives of men, women, and children throughout the whole city and perhaps further. A shiver went down my spine, hitting each vertebrate one by one and seeming to attempt to reawaken the bravery I'd felt at the beginning of our session. I didn't want to finish this talk. I wanted to keep staring. I wanted to watch him, study him, and observe him. He was a predator of the highest degree and even more terrifying than any animal out there because he was not an animal. He was a man. I didn't want to speak, but I had to break the silence.

"I don't think you care what we do and I don't think you care that you're here."

Quite abruptly, he laughed. He let out a whoop of joy and doubled over in his chair, cackling madly to himself. I was somewhat taken aback and felt a haughty expression fall over my face. For the life of me, I could not understand what was so funny.

"Oh... _youuuuu_," he gasped, between giggles, pointing a shaking finger at me. I flinched back as his finger moved close to the invisible line drawing the table into halves. "I _like_ you. You're... you're just sooooo, candid... aren't you? No secrets in your closet. I.. like... you."

If anything, that should have frightened me. It should have made something in me scream and want to flee. If a homicidal maniac liked me, what did that say about my personality? What did it say about _me_? I was not allowed long to dwell on that fact for long, however, as the door swung open and a guard walked in, completely unannounced.

"Sessions up. Back to your cell Giggles." he said, causing my temper to flare. I could feel my face heat.

"We're not finished," I scowled, my eyes narrowed in the direction of the rude intruder.

"You are finished. Doc's order."

I understood that to mean Doctor Lawrence called a halt to the session. Sitting back and crossing my arms, I felt like a child. It was as if someone had shaken their finger at me and said 'No, Harley!' I detested being treated that way. I'd always hated it, since the very first time it happened to me. I wanted to protest, yet I knew better.

I watched the Joker being pulled out of his shackles and into a greying straightjacket. He bent over, raising his arms up slightly and jerking his head in a bizarre fashion. It seemed he had given me a rather haphazard salute. Despite myself I smiled... a little.

"See ya around... _Doc_. By the way... you need some new shoes. The knock offs are nice, but falling apart." he said, still chuckling under his breath. He giggled a little harder as I glanced down at my shiny heels, noticing the scuffs he'd pointed out. As soon as the sound of his laughing disappeared, I pulled my heel up to glance at it. The soles were worn but, once again, I felt the dismay that I had in dressing that morning. Good shoes were expensive.

However, I couldn't dwell. I felt it was safe to stand up, with the sounds of my patient absent from the room. I gathered up the clipboard and began, what I thought was going to be, a walk up to my office.

Doctor Lawrence caught me by the shoulders halfway out the door, holding me still and saying, "Take a deep breath. First session's over and you're fairly unscathed."

"It's over far too early. He was _talking,_ Doctor! He was _talking_. I swear he would have kept on with the conversation had we not been interrupted." I rebuked, still angry and pouting.

"It's over far too _late_, Quinzel," Lawrence corrected gently, rubbing my shoulders a little with his thumbs. "He was talking to you. Do you... _can you_ possibly understand what that might mean?"

I had a light bulb moment then, my face settling into a grim expression, I answered the question. I understood that he was talking to me... which meant he must see something in me he didn't see in the others. "I've initiated a deadly game- taking this case -haven't I doctor?"

The look on Lawrence's face was confirmation enough.

* * *

><p>They'd sent in a baby. They'd sent a little girl. A tiny little girl who was better suited for pigtail pulling on the playground than she was for Arkham Asylum.<p>

I laid on the floor in the center of my cell, my knees tucked up as I stared at the ceiling. Lyle Bolton was making certain I was a good little boy. He stood rigid outside my cell. I considered cat calls, but dismissed the idea. I was too focused on this latest development to pay him any more heed for the day. Instead, I focused on little Harley Quinzel.

She was a breath of fresh air in this tiresome place; a breath of fresh, Ivory smelling air. All the grey and white here in the asylum and she was a bright sunny blonde who'd waltzed into that room and given honest answers.

_She's hiding something._

Hiding something. That little fact, however, made her all the more appealing. I could almost hear Lyle's wrist watch ticking, I was so accustomed to this silence. _Tick tock_, _tick tock_. Always on a schedule, always running late for something or another. Everyone outside was always late and I had all the time in the world. Arkham Asylum was on its own time.

Yes, I had ample amounts of time. Little Harley Quinzel may not, but I did.

I had all the time in the world for her honesty. I had all the time in the world for her _lies_. Oh she was lying, of course. I saw in her eyes, the lies she told. The most obvious lie stood out so bright and shiny it was a wonder someone hadn't reprimanded her yet, for being so dishonest. She walked through the hallways, her cheap little hells click-clacking across the concrete floor.

_She has terrible taste_.

Her glasses (the atrocious small ones meant to make her look smart) gave her the same glossy cheapness to it that her shoes did. Her clothes were _cheap _and so was she. She was as cheap as a bad dye job- _is that her real hair color? _-and she positively reeked of soap. She reeked of soap because always washing herself. In my mind's eye I saw her going home tonight, stripping down, and scrubbing her skin with a bar of Ivory.

She had to be clean and prim and proper for her job because that was what was required, but that wasn't the reason for the ritual. I could see past that film of soap. I'd seen it when she'd locked eyes with me today: Harley-girl was _dirty_. She was filthy and she smelt of soap because she didn't want to be filthy anymore. Little _Doctah _Quinzel was coated in the grime of her guilty conscience and she didn't even know it because she was too busy denying her lies and everything else.

A liar with remorse.

_She's funny._

I cackled and threw myself out on the floor, tearing up with each new bout of the giggles. She was _funny_ and what was funnier than that was that she didn't _want _to be. She tried so hard not to look cheap, after all. I had to pity her for that, lend her some assistance (_the knock offs are nice, but falling apart_) no matter how badly she hadn't wanted to hear it.

Such a charming, honest, funny little liar. As Lyle Bolton rapped his hickory baton on the glass to tell me to shut up, I briefly thought that Harley Quinzel might like some new clothes as well. Her clothes did not flatter her figure at all.

For as bad as her taste was, however, at least she knew her colors. Red and black suited her.

_Blood and bruises._

* * *

><p><em>I need a shower<em>.

I smelled like the Asylum and I wanted to wash it off. More than _that_ I wanted to get rid of the smell of that room. I needed to get rid of the smell of my fear or her would catch wind of it tomorrow and tear me to shreds. Lawrence had said I'd done good today. His words should have made me swell with pride. The doctor I'd long admired had paid me a compliment and what had I done?

_"You did good Quinzel. You did very good for a first session."  
>"Thanks."<em>

Thanks! Not 'thank you' or 'that's very much appreciated Doctor Lawrence.' I'd said thanks and slipped. I was certain Jason Tyler could see it. He'd smiled snidely at me when we passed in the staff room. When I'd gotten back to Doctor Ronaldson's office I had almost burst into tears and collapsed on the floor. I couldn't afford to make such stupid mistakes or the _dogs_ that stalked the asylum corridors would sniff me out and eat me alive.

Abruptly, I swerved out of traffic and on to the side of the road. Several cars honked and I heard a few shouts of profanity, but I couldn't care. I pulled over and into the parking lot of a hotel with a flickering sign. HELLEN'S HOTEL should have been emblazoned in bright red across the top of the building, but the 'e' and the 'n' had burnt out, leaving me to stare at the sign I was certain others laughed at.

Instead of laughing I hung my head down and rested it on the wheel. My palms, slick with sweat, came up to shakily unclip my hair and clench the strands; the pain kept me in reality as I began to sob. I couldn't drive home and work right then. I had to cry and cry long and hard; then I wouldn't have to cry again for a long time. I'm not certain how long I sat there, sobbing into the leather of my steering wheel. I only know that, eventually, I pulled myself together and took the car out of park, intending to drive home and start my work once again.


End file.
